


Beauty in Strength

by august_anon



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Scars, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Teasing, Tickling, lee!geralt, ler!jaskier, ticklish!geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24277852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/august_anon/pseuds/august_anon
Summary: Jaskier's found a new game: brushing against scars and asking after them. If only it wasn't so ticklish when he did so.Warning: This is a tickle fic!!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 109





	Beauty in Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey! I got this idea from my friend Spikey (inconveniently-placed-cactus over on tumblr!) and I loved it so here it is lol. This has been done for a couple weeks but I hoard my tickle fics for a while before posting lol. Hope y'all enjoy!!

The first touch startled Geralt.

He had stepped out of the bath and into his small clothes and had sat on the bed to dig through his bag for something at least somewhat clean (or, at least, not currently soaked in harpy guts and goop) when he heard Jaskier shuffle up behind him. He assumed the bard was simply preparing for bed himself, so he paid little mind to the sounds and the shifting of the bed. He very nearly lunged for his sword at the first feather-light touch on his shoulder, against an old scar.

“What’s this one from?” Jaskier said gently.

Geralt settled his nerves and cleared his throat. “Don’t know if I recall.”

“Come, now,” Jaskier said, a playful lilt to his for-once quiet voice. “Surely you  _ must _ remember.”

His fingers traced around the raised skin before gently dancing along it, and continued to repeat that pattern. Geralt found the room suddenly oddly warm and was grateful, not for the first time, for the fact that witchers were unable to blush. There was also an odd fluttering feeling in his stomach that he knew he must’ve felt once or twice, what felt like lifetimes ago, but no longer had the name to describe.

“Must I?” Geralt asked, finally pulling a shirt from his bag.

Jaskier huffed and Geralt knew he was discontent. His fingers vanished briefly from his shoulder, but reappeared at the back of his ribs, tracing three long, raised scars. Geralt had to hold his breath to keep in his gasp, but he couldn’t stop the involuntary twitch of his skin under Jaskier’s ministrations. He fumbled and dropped the shirt.

“What about this one?”

Geralt cleared his throat again, worried he’d be unable to speak if he didn’t. “Werewolf. Few years back.”

Jaskier hummed. He dragged a single finger around each claw mark before laying his fingers over them in the shape of a claw once more and dragging his hand back and forth, back and forth. Geralt’s breath was coming out in quiet puffs and if Jaskier continued in that spot, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could control himself. The urge to squirm, to give in and chuckle, was becoming overwhelming.

Luckily, Jaskier seemed satisfied with the information he got and his hand lifted from the scar. His hand then touched down low down on his back, just behind his hip, and Geralt couldn’t help the minute flinch at the  _ unknowingly _ teasing touch. Jaskier traced the circular scar (mostly circular, at least. Nothing healed that perfectly) before spiralling into the center with a single finger, then spiralling back out.

“Kikimore,” Geralt said without being prompted, figuring the faster he spoke the faster Jaskier would move on and give him another brief moment to rebuild his defenses.

“There are different kinds, right?” Jaskier asked, not moving on.

Geralt tried to take a deep breath, but it kept puffing out. He locked his joints in place so as to not squirm and give himself away. “Yes. Workers, warriors, and the queen.”

Jaskier placed all his fingers in the center of the scar and slowly dragged them outwards to the edges, then repeated the motion going inwards. Geralt couldn’t help but gasp and jerk at that, one hand making an aborted movement to reach back and pull Jaskier away while the other went up to hover over his mouth in case he needed to muffle any more sounds.

“Which one did this?” Jaskier asked, a grin evident in his voice.

Geralt inwardly cursed. Jaskier knew  _ exactly  _ what he was doing.

“A-a warrior,” he managed, having to bring his hand away from his mouth to speak.

The hand granted him a brief moment of mercy, but not nearly long enough. It touched down again against his shoulder blade, a series of old puncture wounds. The fingers on the hand spread out so as to touch each of them and nails scratched gently at the centers.

“And here?”

Geralt took a shaky breath and resisted the urge to roll his shoulders. “Harpy. Like today.”

“How’d it do that?” Jaskier punctuated the question with a particularly sharp scratch that had Geralt gasping again, back arching.

“Got it’s talons into me and tried to fly off.”

Jaskier hummed sympathetically, taking a single finger to trace around each raised, uneven oval individually. “I assume it didn’t manage, or these would be much larger.”

Geralt hummed shakily, lungs spasming with repressed titters -- witchers didn’t  _ titter _ .

Geralt tried not to jump as Jaskier’s head hooked over his shoulder, hands snaking around to hug him around his middle. Palms flat, they rubbed up and down his torso for a few moments and Geralt foolishly allowed himself to relax, even though he knew it wasn’t over.

Jaskier started out easy, a thin line on his pectoral. It wasn’t too terribly ticklish, but the tingles still spread out under his skin. He brushed a fingertip back and forth over it a few times before switching to lightly scraping his nail along it.

“Knife,” Geralt said softly.

Jaskier scritched briefly at his chest with four fingers, making Geralt twitch, before moving on. He decided on a knotted scar on Geralt’s side, right around his waistline. Geralt twitched and huffed, a smile sneaking onto his face. The already sensitive spot combined with the even-more-sensitive scar tissue made it  _ very _ hard to keep his composure.

“What about here, darling?”

Geralt tried to remember, and then huffed out a quick breath of a laugh that had nothing to do with the ticklish touch. Jaskier must’ve sensed it too, because he stopped the teasing, just resting his fingers against the skin and looking at him curiously. Geralt couldn’t help the grin on his face.

“Eskel and I,” he said. “We were fucking around, and I tumbled out a window. Vesemir was pissed as all hell.”

Jaskier chuckled in the crook of his shoulder and neck. “Of course you were the Kaer Morhen troublemakers.”

Geralt opened his mouth to reply, but at that exact moment, Jaskier scribbled those calloused fingertipss against the scar and Geralt was too caught off-guard to keep himself composed. He barked out a laugh and jerked to the side, curving his waist in on one side and trying to twist away, but Jaskier followed him easily. 

The boys at Kaer Morhen played rough, even when doing something as silly and fun as tickling. It was all throwing each other to the ground and pinning each other into the floor and digging hands deep into weak points. They got away with playing by telling Vesemir it was teaching them where to defend themselves, since ticklish weak points were often directly correlated with places you did  _ not _ want to get injured, like arteries and organs, but Geralt was sure he saw through that.

But experiencing it as such, Geralt wasn’t prepared for just how much such a gentle touch could tickle. It was  _ unbearable _ , it was  _ maddening _ . Geralt didn’t know how to handle it. And Jaskier never went deeper, never went harsher, just kept his touch feather-light tracing around and teasing his scars. It wasn’t a sensation he had any reference for to help his defense, so he was utterly helpless in the face of this caring bard with his gentle hands and soft smile.

Jaskier stayed in that spot for what felt like a  _ while _ to Geralt, now that he finally found somewhere to make Geralt crack. He squeezed his hands into fists to avoid reaching for or swatting at Jaskier, not willing to ruin their little game. As embarrassing as it was, Geralt  _ may _ have been having a  _ little _ bit of fun, and he wasn’t quite willing to give it up so soon, even if he had lost at holding back his reactions.

After an eternity, Jaskier pulled his hand away. He gave Geralt almost no time before he moved to the next scar, meaning Geralt had no time to recover. He almost snorted as Jaskier’s fingers touched down and traced around a scar curving against his stomach. Then he traced his fingers in a line up and down the curve, leaving Geralt wiggling in place in a very embarrassing way, for someone who tried so hard to remain composed.

Geralt was so focused on trying to rebuild the dam to contain his snickers and being flustered over his squirming, that Jaskier played with the scar for over a minute before prompting Geralt with an evil grin against his neck.

“This one, dear heart?” He punctuated the question with a quick wiggle against the deepest part of the curve, and Geralt had to swallow a terrible squeal.

“D-devourer,” he struggled to get out.

“Oh, poor thing,” Jaskier cooed. “Ugly bastards, those ones. Nasty claws on them.”

At the word “claw” Jaskier formed a claw with his fingers and scratched up and down against various scars around Geralt’s stomach. Geralt’s choked snickers turned into full laughs as he squeezed his eyes shut. Doing that, however, only made things  _ worse _ for him, because he couldn’t tell where Jaskier was moving next, so they immediately shot back open.

Then, Jaskier dropped one of the weaponized hands and dipped a finger into his bellybutton. This time, Geralt couldn’t quite successfully bite back the squeal that tried to escape, and it came out choked and giggly. He laughed and jerked, doubling over a little at the sensation.

“That’s not a scar!” He protested, but still didn’t pull Jaskier’s hand away.

Jaskier chuckled against his neck and vibrated the finger even deeper. “Sure it is! Remember where it came from?”

“My-- my birth!”

Jaskier pulled away, giving him a break. Geralt leaned over his legs, working to regain his breath through his leftover chuckles.

“Your giggles are so cute,” Jaskier said, nipping playfully at Geralt’s exposed shoulder and neck.

Geralt was so wound up that he even jerked away from that touch, feeling quite ticklish even though it didn’t usually bother him so much. “I don’t giggle.”

Jaskier fluttered his fingers against the knotted scar on his side once more, and Geralt burst into giggles. “I beg to differ, darling. They’re all deep and rumbling, nothing like my giggles, but giggles nonetheless. Your chuckles are quite a bit deeper, not quite so bouncy.”

“Quiet.”

Jaskier gasped, pulling his hands away. “As if I could ever!”

Before Geralt could retort with some sort of scathing or teasing remark, one of Jaskier’s hands made itself known on his thigh, tracing a long, deep scar. Geralt hadn’t had time to compose himself yet again, and immediately tumbled back into quiet laughter. His leg twitched, but Geralt refused to show enough weakness to let it squirm and bounce about like it wanted to, to escape the sensations.

“Cockatrice,” Geralt fought to get out through his laughter, knowing Jaskier was trying to draw out the playful torment before asking.

“Poor thing,” Jaskier murmured against the skin of his neck, lips and teeth tracing the scar that Adda had left there after he’d saved her from her striga curse, the bite marks having healed in quite the ugly fashion.

This time, Geralt did snort, trying to shrug up his shoulders and crane his neck so that Jaskier didn’t have access, but the man was stubborn. His hand also still fluttered away at Geralt’s thigh, finding other scars to trace briefly, but not asking after them.

“You’re beautiful,” Jaskier breathed.

Geralt didn’t reply, suddenly debating pulling away from Jaskier’s touch. Jaskier made the decision for him, pushing him down onto the bed and staring down at him, fingers tracing a few scars in a way that, for the first time since this little game started, weren’t meant to be ticklish. They still were, of course, but lightly enough that Geralt was able to actually focus.

“You are. Your scars don’t detract from that beauty.”

Geralt caught one of Jaskier’s wandering hands off his bicep and the other froze where it was on his chest. “I’m a mutant and a monster.”

Jaskier scowled at him. “Next time you say that, I’m going to tickle you until you have to gasp through your giggles about how good and wonderful a person you are,  _ and _ how drop-dead handsome you are.”

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

Left with no time to argue his point again, Jaskier’s hands touched down again, finding some of the more sensitive scars he had explored. One hand went to the knotted one on his side and scribbled away, the other slipped under him to the kikimore scar on his back and started up that maddening in-and-out dragging of fingers once more. Geralt tossed his head back in laughter, eyes squeezing shut.

“Or maybe,” Jaskier said, cheeky grin evident in his voice and mirth dancing around in his scent, “we’ll just do that now.”

Jaskier’s mouth attached to Adda’s scar once more and Geralt was lost. His hands danced between scar tissue, tormenting away, while his mouth pinpointed any scars in the vicinity of his neck, shoulders, and collarbones to nip and kiss at. Geralt wheezed and cackled and giggled, but he never made an effort to squirm away from the touch. He knew how to get out of it, after all, even if he believed saying it would be a lie. Besides, Witcher stamina was nothing to bat an eye at. So Geralt simply gripped Jaskier’s hips and let himself go, just this once, to have fun with his lover. Their laughter mingled together late into the night, causing them to have a much later start in the morning than they had originally planned. 

Geralt couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey, thanks for reading guys, I hope you enjoyed! Leave a comment or kudos, if you feel so inclined to do so, I would love it if you did! And feel free to come hang out and visit with me on tumblr, under the same name, august-anon!
> 
> Also, I know Foltest's sister that had the striga child was named Adda and I don't think they ever said so in show/book (but who knows I have a bad memory lol), BUT if you play Witcher 1 you meet that striga girl again, a young woman now, and Foltest had creepily chosen to name her Adda as well. So that's why it's "Adda's scar" in the above fic, instead of just "the scar from the striga girl." Also, she's nuts, lol. Tried to have me killed lol.


End file.
